When Teresia died, despite the fact that I had very little experience
with her, I decided to remain gloomy just to express my loss. I knew
there was no way I could be left behind in such a state of mind. I had
just to go to that funeral.
The day came when we were to travel
home and as usual dad would never travel in the same vehicle with all
the family members. I joined dad in his Peugeot as Elsa a.k.a Nyaugo
went with the other part of the community on public transport.
Separating us was a very wise idea; the probability of both vehicles
getting involved in a fatal accident was next to nil. In the event of
Nyaugo’s battalion getting into a fatal accident, God forbid, I would
still remain behind to continue with the science of bringing more
descendants.
On our way to Kisumu, we made a stopover at Turbo to
pick my uncle Odhiambo. Uncle must have been sent by my enemies to make
sure that my ears never enjoyed any peaceful moment in the long and
tiresome journey. He was like “Jakotuol, wake up! Wake up! You see the
monkey?” Uncle did not have the slightest idea that I had to remain in
the mourning mood throughout the journey so as to justify my travelling.
Our journey became slower on reaching Kisumu as we had to wait for the
for the PSV brigade in order to arrive at the funeral together. Dad
decided to branch in every funeral including those that had been buried a
decade ago just to kill time. He would stand by the grave (Chung’ e
liel), and pray and wish the remaining guys well. He was a man of the
people. At one point I saw him carrying a child and got very mad. Dad
never carried me. He claimed it was against culture for a man to piro
nyathi (nanny a baby). I wished that baby threw a surprise missile at
him - my wish was not granted.
On reaching home wailing
increased!! People wailed as if they were drunk on something stronger
than coffee. Wailing without any formula was the order of the day.
Others were dengoring (dengo), a few were gueyowing (barking lol), and
others were running from the gate with spears and shields as if chasing
the spirit of death; the rest were either cooking or eating. The
emaciated airless and pathetically looking village dogs also gathered
for a noisy feast. It was utter confusion. Surprisingly, the cartoons
that were flying around with spears made the kitchen their runway; they
all landed there but dad majestically walked with us to the place where
the body was laid. Prayer warriors were ready to pray for something as
majority of us closed our eyes. I managed to steal a few glances at the
body as a strange idea lingered in my mind - she was breathing. I
touched the hands and they were both cold. I wanted to open her eyes but
it was too late..”Amen” had been said.
After that I became a free
molecule and started looking for my mum and sisters. Joy inconceivable
illuminated my spirit body and soul in the midst of the prevailing
grief. I loved the sight of my mom who was very beautiful but not as
young as I last saw her. My two younger sisters, Ojiro Nyamande and
Stella Ogutu, had taken a lot of blood from her! How could they come
that quickly? Grace, the first born, was a nice girl; Goretty, the third
born was so excited and the rest of the community were like “You mean
Nyaguti (My mom) has other children?” The village never knew that mom
had given birth to some boys who were hidden somewhere in Vihiga. “And
they look very healthy” they marveled. Little did they know that the
main composition of my flesh was the roasted meat from the police
roadblock.
That night, I narrated to Goretty what I had gone
through in the hands of my step moms and by extension my dad. We both
cried aloud thanks to the funeral - people thought that we were mourning
the dead. I requested Goretty not to share a thing with mom as she
would be hurt but somehow mom got wind of everything. Goretty suggested
that I remain in the village from then henceforth, something that dad
would never listen to.
It was burial time and people gathered at
the grave side to pay their last respect. This was after people had
given their testimonies (neno/ last words) about the dead. Alseba,
another step grandma, had said everything until she had to be stopped
from saying any extra. I came too close to the grave to an extent that I
almost slipped. I was taken away and the burial took place in my
absence. Dad sympathized with me; he saw how much I loved Teresia.
The
dreaded day soon dawned and we were to return to town and leave the
noisy village for the villagers. I disappeared thanks to the beloved
Goretty. I couldn’t just get myself back to the town prison willingly.
Dad called out for me but where I was I couldn’t hear the voice. My
sisters were sent to look for me everywhere but none, except Goretty,
knew where I was. Not even my mom had the slightest idea of where I was
hiding. I also did not know where I was as I couldn’t trace my way back
to the homestead. After angrily looking for me for close to three hours,
dad gave up and drove back to Vihiga with Elsa, Jakolanya and Mango. If
there was anybody to be fried that night; it was obviously not me – I
was very safe. The thought of peace made me forsake the usual three
packets of milk, roasted meat and my new bicycle. Goretty came for me
later that evening and our arrival suprisedof all the family members.
Monday
came and everybody disappeared to school apart from me. I had no school
to go to and furthermore there was no recommendation letter from my
previous school, not even a report form. Mom told Goretty to carry her
own cross and make sure that I was in a school. That time I was in class
three and it was in the middle of third term just about the examination
time. At around 10:30am that day, Goretty appeared like a ghost, from
school, together with her very slim friend Taabu, Arowo’s daughter. She
was named Taabu because she gave her mother too much problems in the
maternity ward; I hoped she had no bone to chew with me. The duo had
very good news for “We have talked with Mr. Adem Raongo, the headmaster
of Ochok Primary School. Brother, you have a chance. Hurry up!! Let’s
go”. That is how I landed in Ochok Primary without school uniform. I
thought I was dirty until I saw my class mates. Their skins were white
as snow with their noses having continuous flow of the disgusting liquid
matter. The souls of their feet were cracked as others had swollen toes
owing to the jigger menace in the locality those days. They seemed as
if they had not had any contact with water for quit a while.
It
was almost the last lesson that morning when I arrived in class together
with the class teacher who was more than willing to introduce me in a
language I did not understand. I was used to speaking Swahili and
English. “Oyawre uru nyithindo (Morning kids)” The lady teacher greeted
them. She was wearing maxi, the kind of dress Elsa wore when I first saw
her. The difference was Elsa’s was green while this was more of a
rainbow. Thinking of that colour now makes my head ache. “Oyawre ahinya
Japuonj (Morning Teacher)”. The teacher continued speaking in Luo
language. “Who knows why I’m here now?” Asked the rainbow woman. All
hands were up with the shout of “Teacher!! Teacher!! Teacher!!
Teacher!!” These kids were exhibiting characters that were prohibited by
my Soy Primary School Teacher. “Ikelonwa wendo (You’ve brought us a
visitor)”, responded one girl who had a double white lines on her
confused nose. The girls at Soy knew how to use handkerchiefs very well.
Who told these kids that I was their visitor? Then I was invited to
give my acceptance speech. This entailed just saying my name and where I
came from. I talked in Swahili. “Asanteni sana wanafunzi wenzangu kwa
kunikaribisha hapa…..” and I went on and on for close to five minutes.
They all went blank just like some confused warthogs. I had to shake my
head to understand that I was in middle of a village Kisumu Rural.
The
next lesson was crazy - Luo Language. I had no idea on how to utter
even a single word in Luo. The teacher started by drawing a table
underneath she wrote Mesa, then a three legged stool - Komb Nyaluo
followed by something which looked like a bed - Otanda. In fact Otanda
was easy to guess because I knew it as Kitanda in Swahili. From there I
decided that Dholuo was easy going by the example of Kitanda - Otanda.
When the teacher drew a spoon, I raised my hands. I knew in Kiswahili it
is called Kijiko so it had to be Ojiko in Luo. I was right! The teacher
asked them to clap for me. Things became steep when we went to the
animal world. Monkey is called nyani in Kiswahili but not Onyani in Luo;
it’s Onger in Luo. I started hating this Luo language; maybe the
teacher was too fast. I wish I was in my own class.
I hated the
fact that milk would be distributed only ones a week – on Wednesdays and
it was only one packet! I was used to three packets daily! Mom told me
that school milk was not for my consumption but for making tea for
everybody at home – what? I responded by “haha” without noting that she
was dam serious.
Policemen in the village were so dreaded and they
had no roasted meat unlike the ones in Vihiga. The cows in town were
being fed while those in the village were more of tourists in the wild.
Yours in the village class,
Migingo Jakotuol
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